


puff and blow

by crispycrumblycrust



Category: Holby City
Genre: M/M, am so going to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 01:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispycrumblycrust/pseuds/crispycrumblycrust
Summary: John’s not easily impressed, but he will never forget this day.





	puff and blow

**Author's Note:**

> Go big or go home, I guess...

“Pass me a pillow, please.”

When has he moved? Henrik’s not beside him but on the floor.

John slowly uncurls, his mind still not caught up with his body, with this experience. He tosses the nearest pillow at him, a force of habit rather than actually knowing what’s happening. He winces, hopes this won’t be the cause of a row. But fortunately, Henrik catches it easily.

“Thank you,” he says softly and kneels on the pillow.

John rests a hand on his chest, checking if his heart and lungs are still functioning properly.

He glances around. Perhaps he’s missed a tea set, perhaps Henrik’s about to perform a Japanese tea ceremony. He fights the urge to give him another pillow, or better yet, every pillow and blanket on this bed, even if goosebumps spread on his arms.

Henrik beckons him closer. Like the naive, foolish little man he is, he obeys. He gestures in front of him. John plants his feet on the floor. He’s staring at his stomach and John tenses, wishes he has some actual abs to show Henrik.

His mouth dries when Henrik grips his knees, pushes them apart. He nudges the pillow closer and settles himself between his knees. His gaze lowers.

Wait a sec.

Before he can blink,  a hand finds him, gives him a stroke.  Up and down.  Once. 

Half an hour ago, there  was not a part of him that Henrik hasn’t  touched, kissed, revered.  He teased John  until he was left a shaking, stuttering wreck.  When he finally showed mercy, the climax was a lifeline he clung to with a weak grip.

John coughs up something – _yes, no,_ wait _._ He’s not sure, can be anything really. Only air escapes when Henrik replaces his hand with his mouth.

He blinks several times.  The last time he was speechless was  _years_ ago.

The palms of his hands press against the mattress, useless. This isn’t happening, this _can’t_ be happening. He refuses to believe the sight in front of him telling him otherwise. And then Henrik _does_ something with his mouth. John’s not a naive boy, not anymore, nor unfamiliar with any of this. But the others aren’t Henrik. Other voices, mouths, hands are not Henrik’s. He grits his teeth, balls his hands to fists to stop them from doing something he’ll regret. He tells himself _don’t move._

He works slowly, using only his lips, pressure feather light. John makes a sound – a whine or a groan or something new, something that he hasn’t heard even during his wildest night. His hands twitch and he bites his lower lip. He focuses on breathing through his nose. Once he starts breathing through his mouth, that will be the end of him.

Somehow, it works, as his pleasure shrinks to a manageable form. He sighs in relief, hopes his speech will recover quickly. The last time he was silent was after a tiring shift, atop his bad mood. The other was mediocre at best, and when he came it lacked a certain spice.

He feels eyes on him. Henrik’s staring at him, frowning. Then, as if he’s remembered something crucial, he leans forward again. The mouth returns – _oh god –_ and this time a hand joins in.

He bows his head, closes his eyes. Before he knows it, his hand lands on his shirt. He stutters an apology, thinks _this is it._ He must have done something wrong now, but the most wondrous hum from Henrik drowns out _everything_. 

His hand slowly slides up his thigh, kneading the muscles along the way. The tip of his tongue touches him and that throws John into oblivion.

He groans, focuses on the path his hand makes on his shoulder. It’s a good thing Henrik hasn’t looked at him once since he’s begun. He’s sure he would have come there and then. His fingers trace the side of his neck, stop for a moment to feel his pulse – strong and steady and warm. Just like Henrik.

Henrik hums again, exhales through his nose. The air tickles him. He squirms. He squeezes his thigh, as if trying to a calm an agitated patient.

His hair is as thick and curly and wonderful as it looks. He licks his lips, loses himself in this new, soft touch and in him. Henrik’s actually here, kneeling in front of him, doing something John’s never thought he would ever, _ever_ do and, _oh_ god, the other hand returns again. A mouth and a hand have never been this perfect before. Someone moans. Must be John because his fingers move and stimulate him and his tongue _does something_ again. Henrik’s enchanting John in a way no one else can. He’s losing control, he’s losing himself, he’s not sure how much more he can _take_ before _-_

Henrik leans back, releasing him. The sudden, cool air stings him, wet from saliva and sensitive to even the softest sensation.

Henrik swallows loudly, grimaces. He coughs once, then coughs again. John stares, frozen in place, as if his legs have lost all blood supply. Pleasure and bliss still fill his body and mind and clash with the alarming sight in front of him.

He bows his head, keeps coughing as he covers his mouth. For a moment, John’s afraid he will throw up. That will be a new low. He thought he’s seen everything, all sorts of different reactions after a climax: passing out, crying, leaving him minutes afterwards or the opposite, clinging onto him and not understanding the meaning of no strings attached.

Henrik rests his forehead on the edge of the mattress, shoulders and chest heaving. John winces. That doesn’t sound good, but at least he’s stopped coughing. He should probably do something, say something, ask if Henrik’s all right. Perhaps he should give him another pillow. Every new suggestion is even more absurd than the previous one. The helplessness increases with each second, making him more and more useless and weak.

Henrik lifts his head slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes teary. He glares at the wall behind him.

John chuckles, quietly at first. It slowly grows into a laugh that he can’t stop as this absurd situation catches up on him. Henrik’s disheveled appearance is a far cry from the usual neat, pressed suits and his impenetrable facade. It’s a far cry from how in control he was earlier, teasing him mercilessly, ignoring his pleas and gasps, before finally giving him release. 

He laughs because  once he stops laughing, he’ll ponder about  this failure and  the consequences. Their first time might very well be the last time. Henrik will leave and never return again.

His eyes begin to fill with tears.  He wonders if they’re tears of happiness or sadness.

Henrik stares  back  at him  with a blank look.

“I am...” John snorts, breaths out, tries again. “I’m so-” He shakes his head. Can’t even apologize properly, not when a laugh suffocates everything else.

His brow raises. Henrik seems better now. His breathing has almost returned to normal. His cheeks are almost pale again from the lack of sun and rest.

John can’t stop now, even if he wants to. “My stomach-” A hiccup cuts him off. For once he doesn’t hate the stomach cramps. It differs from his stomach churning when faced with failure or food poisoning when he refuses to learn from mistakes and eats dishes that his digestive system can’t handle.

“John,” he says, deadpan. He sits on his pillow like a Japanese emperor about to give divine retribution to a disobedient subject.

“I...I can’t breath-” He chortles, tries to stutter through the pain and lack of air. He wonders if a panic attack feels this way. He’s seen it many times: colleagues, patients, relatives losing control, becoming utterly useless.

Perhaps that thought has stopped this laughing fit, or perhaps it’s Henrik’s unimpressed stare.

Shoulders still shaking, he swallows loudly and groans, his throat and chest aching from the abuse. He reaches blindly for a pillow and uses it to dry his eyes. He almost blows his nose too but remembers he’s not alone. He hugs the pillow instead.

Now that his laughter hasn’t demanded all attention, the sudden silence in the room is uncomfortable, pressing into his shoulders. Henrik still hasn’t moved, is looking at him with a carefully blank look. He holds the pillow closer to his chest.

Henrik runs his tongue around his mouth, frowns. He searches the pockets of his trousers, realizes he’s discarded his handkerchief on the nightstand.

He fights the urge to hide his face in the pillow. The familiar sound of ripping plastic still embarrassed him and he could only watch as Henrik slipped it on him. He came so quickly after balancing on the edge for _so_ long. Afterwards, warm and sated, he watched with half lidded eyes as Henrik cleaned his hands with his handkerchief, as if John has _still_ made a mess. He would be hurt if this was anyone else but Henrik.

N ow  an opportunity has arrived.  He throws his pillow aside. 

“Wait,” he says as he lurches forward, grabs his wrist. He blinks when Henrik _does_ stop, as though John can influence him in any way. No, that’s not right. That has never been the case. Henrik’s observing him, waiting what his next move will be. 

He slowly leans forward, stares at his mouth. “Let me?” he half asks, half says and wets his lips.

He waits a beat, for something, _anything_. When nothing happens, he kisses his chin, tastes his aftershave mingled with a saltiness. He wants more, _needs_ more, but when he licks the skin, Henrik retreats.

“John-” he says, frowning.

He doesn’t wait this time and kisses him full on the mouth. He tastes himself first. Then a bitterness that almost stings his tongue. It’s the tea that he’s drunk while John nibbled on the straw of an empty orange juice box that he’s snatched from Henrik’s refrigerator. And lastly, something unfamiliar, something that must be unique, something like Henrik. The moment he tastes it, he already knows he’ll love it. Very much. He wants more. Needs more.

He grabs his shirt, for once not caring if he creases it. He hauls him up. Henrik almost trips, rests a hand on his chest for balance. John smiles as Henrik exhales in his mouth. He’s actually _shocked_. John grins. He hopes he’s impressed too, by this action, by his strength. 

Henrik seems to realize what he’s done, moves his hand away, leans away. John groans, traps him, tugs him back, like a needy child not finished snuggling his favorite stuffed animal.

Henrik rests a hand lightly on his side, near the pancreas. Perhaps he should return the favor, trace his spine and count the protruding bones. The light brush is enough to make him groan. He leans closer, hisses as he, still soft and sensitive, brushes against Henrik’s stomach.

He bites his lower lip. Henrik inhales sharply, his hand applying more pressure.

He  can keep kissing him forever this way.  John wants to. At some point, Henrik’s  touching his hair ,  but halts when his fingertips  reach the fine line between  short and very short hair. John knows he doesn’t  like  his new hairstyle, prefers it longer.  John  likes it, but if Henrik doesn’t, he’ll  accommodate him.  Anything for Henrik.

H is lungs scream, demand oxygen. He ignores them,  ignores himself,  ignores reality.  Nothing matters but Henrik.

Henrik shivers. He smiles, even as black spots appear in his vision. Doesn’t matter. The only important thing is Henrik,  the air they share, the taste of him, the  _feel_ of him.

Someone ends the kiss. Henrik’s breathing is as erratic as his own, his trembling fingers almost drumming against his skin. The flush on his cheeks  is the most wondrous thing John has ever seen. It almost hides how thin and haggard he always looks.

He’s still clutching him but knows everything has to end at some point. He releases him slowly. Henrik barely notices, still dazed. John smooths out the creases on his shirt, blinks as he considers for a moment unbuttoning the top buttons. He lost his chance when Henrik leans back. He watches, a bit morose but keeps his hands to himself. Henrik slowly takes a seat beside him.

T he silence that follows isn’t cold, but not warm either.

“Well, judging by your reaction, I suspect you’re pleased.”

John nods, licks his lips, savoring the lingering taste of Henrik. He’s more than pleased. This evening was better than his wildest daydreams. He wants to tell him this but knows Henrik won’t believe him.

“Good,” he says, relieved.

John rolls his eyes. “Honestly, what did you expect, that I would be bad? Give me some credit,” he adds jokingly.

“No, I didn’t mean...” Henrik trails off, glances away.

“What, you mean yourself _?_ ” he asks, filling the silence with another joke.

The notion alone is absurd. But Henrik refuses to meet his eyes. He sobers and something clicks.

“Is this...” John falters, his mind trying to grasp the implications. “Are you...” He doesn’t know how to continue. He knows about Maja. Not the details, but the abrupt, messy end was hard to miss. That, and the child she was carrying. Years have passed now. It’s cliche, but time does heal all wounds, makes memories easier to revisit, emotions less suffocating. Can't be the lack of interest in Henrik. Even during their uni days, he attracted so much interest and attention. But he is either unwilling or unable to see what’s obvious to the rest.

“Yes. Well.” Henrik’s at a loss of words. And that’s answer enough. Suddenly, the focus on John, the determination in his eyes and body, the _silence_ make sense. 

He remembers his first time. He knelt down in front of a stranger, clumsily undid his zipper with his mouth – as requested – and carefully pulled the stiff member out. He stared a bit too long, shocked and intimidated, and flinched when a large hand grabbed his face. It only grew worse from there.

Henrik has handled it very well.

“I did my research.” He doesn’t meet his eyes.

He frowns, tensing. What research, where, when? John has so many questions. His mind tries to answer them, shows him flashes of a charming colleague, a handsome stranger, or a pretty relative of a patient.

“John.” His rebuke stops him. Henrik looks disgusted at John's behalf, his thoughts. He can almost hear him say, _get your mind out of the gutter,_ please _._

John smiles sheepishly. He should listen to that, should know Henrik isn’t like others, isn’t like John, though his mind is still shaking, still not reassured.

“I was referring to observation. I have consulted multiple sources.”

No doubt about that, as he pictures anatomy and psychology books. Henrik is very thorough in everything he does. But the sudden image of him looking at gay porn, armed with a notebook and fountain pen, not at all moved by the obscene noises, beautiful bodies and unrealistic standards, is so absurd that he wants to laugh. He disguises his chuckle as a snort.

“Glad you’re amused,” he comments, every word dripping with sarcasm.

He blinks. Henrik’s misunderstanding him, thinking he’s making fun of him. _Never._ Must be a sign of how astonished still he is. Normally, Henrik’s very observant. In control, too.

“Rest assured, John. You still have the dubious honor of being the first,” he says, lowering his voice.

Rationally, John has seen better, experienced so much more.  But  none of the others were Henrik.  Not even close.

“And I'll treasure it forever.” He makes sure to keep the tone light and shrugs. John means every word, but if the depth of his feelings become clear to Henrik, he risks frightening him away. He will _not_ become the next Maja, the next Roxanna.

Henrik shakes his head, almost in disbelief. He must have noticed something, for he says, “You are under the illusion that anything I touch turns into gold, so to speak.” He pauses, regards him for a moment. “You are, of course, wrong.”

No, it's true, no matter how convincing Henrik sounds. But his truth is not John’s truth. It never is. John bites his lower lip, to stop the words, to stop _everything_ from spilling out. Even if he uses every superlative he knows, kowtows to him, latches onto him and never lets him go, nothing will ever accurately describe this experience, describe _him_. Besides, Henrik will only hear the negative words, dismiss the emotions in his voice, the pain twisting his face and shaking his limbs.

He suddenly feels guilty. Guilty for the times he hasn’t tried harder to reconnect with him. How easy he’s found solace in others. Sometimes, the only way he _can_ express himself is through touch – a reassuring hand on the shoulder, a kiss on the lips, a hug. John’s failed at that tonight and he wonders if he’s created his own failure again.

It’s wrong when Henrik touches his wrist, rests his thumb on his pulse, stares at him with such warmth and softness. It’s all wrong. Henrik shouldn’t be reassuring him, forgive him so easily. John shouldn’t accept his attention, his care, his strength.

And yet he leans in, inhales deeply, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how many seconds pass, when John embraces him, when Henrik slowly, carefully wraps an arm around him.

His eyes open, and he feels renewed, as if he’s slept through the night undisturbed. He lowers his eyes for a moment, before he realizes his hand is still on his back. He’s staring at him with interest, a focus lurking in his gaze. The longer John looks back, the more he notices something else beckoning him closer, enticing him.

Henrik doesn’t stop him when he touches his collar. He tugs the tie free from between two buttons, reminding him to start looking for tie bars. No matter how well Henrik always looked, no matter what, John is not him. It’s not practical either.

He struggles with the knot, still getting used to wearing suits.

He’s asked for his opinion once, if gray would be a good color. Henrik always looks amazing in gray, especially if he adds a matching waistcoat. But the immediate _no_ still echoes in his mind. _No,_ _choose_ _b_ _lue,_ he said. _L_ _ike your eyes._ He’s taken his advice, moving slowly from black to blue shades. He remembers, just as he remembers everything else Henrik’s said and done, no matter how trivial.

Finally,  the  tie  is  in his hands.  He pauses, fingers rubbing the  warm, smooth  texture.  He’s still learning –  fabric,  cut,  color – but it  _feels_ expensive.  He’s not really a fan of clothing patterns, but the dots on the tie almost hypnotizes him,  like countless eyes dragging him closer and closer to a void. Perhaps...perhaps he  _should_ give it a try.  Not hing too outrageous.  Perhaps  stripes, or  dots, too. Later. First, he needs to  adjust to wearing a tie in the first place.

He risks a glance up,  sees amusement in his eyes  that not even his glasses –  resting  on the nightstand –  can hide.  He narrows his eyes,  crumples up the tie and chucks it  over his shoulder.

Henrik frowns, displeased, and leans forward. John rests a hand on his shoulder. The plan is to only stop him, but as soon as his palm touches his shirt, he loses himself. Before, John gripped his shirt, pawed at it, too stimulated by the kisses and caresses everywhere but where he was hard and twitching. Before, he couldn’t pay it any attention. Now, as his fingers carefully stroke the fabric, he feels the urge to bury his nose in it, inhale deeply, over and over again until he becomes dizzy and light headed.

John hasn’t realized how _close_ he is, that he’s now sitting on his lap, until he hears a soft groan. He leans back, thinks he’s hurt Henrik. His weight might be too much for him. He searches his face for any sign of pain, displeasure – or worse, rejection – but what he finds instead is something else, something he doesn’t dare to presume. Ever.

John swallows. His heartbeat hammers loudly in his ears. He adjusts his knee and freezes. He swallows loudly, repeats the motion. Henrik groans and glances away. 

_There it is._ Finally some tangible evidence of Henrik’s arousal. He smiles, can’t stop smiling when his chest fills with something he can’t describe. John wonders if people feel the same way when they’ve finally found their purpose in life. Before he realizes what he’s done, the top button is freed with practiced skill. 

“John, wait.”

He freezes, thinks he’s pushed him too hard.

“I don't have...” he whispers.

“What?” he asks when Henrik remains silent.

He gestures vaguely, coughs quietly, and then nods to him.

It’s rare to see Henrik like this. He commits this image to memory. He follows his gaze, then rests his eyes on the bulge in his trousers.

So he’s afraid John will make a mess? He can show him how it's properly done. He’ll swallow everything and lick him clean afterwards. Or Henrik can finish inside him. He’ll need a moment to adjust and get past the fight response. Might as well start now and get used to the idea of being on the receiving end.

Henrik might be worried about his health. John's clean – his monthly check up confirms it every time.

Or maybe this is about principles, the same reason why Henrik opens the door for others, always tries to save others so he doesn’t have to focus on his own problems. It’s just who he is.

But whatever the reason is, now is not the time to fight. Not when there's an easy solution.

Henrik tries to catch him, hand brushing against his arm but John is already on the floor looking for his trousers. He ignores the irked _John_ when he throws a sock aside and pushes away his boxers.

The left pocket is empty. He checks the other, grins when he feels the plastic packages. He always has two on his person.

He fishes them out, holds them up, as if showing a card trick.

Henrik stares, blinks twice. “Two?”

John shrugs.

“One for each of us?” he asks.

He doesn’t answer him, say out loud that they’re both for Henrik. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else. Henrik will notice a lie immediately.

He shakes his head fondly.

John tiptoes back, tosses one on the nightstand, the other on a pillow.

“Where were we?” he asks, eyes set on his exposed collar. His fingers make quick work of the second and third button. 

He glances at the exposed skin. Henrik loves to wear multiple layers of clothing. He once shrugged off his sweater, revealed another sweater underneath, on top of the collar of his shirt peeking out. 

It’s his lucky day, today.

John stares at him. He has never seen anything so beautiful, so perfect before.

The sight entices him, excites him. His body agrees – he twitches.

Change of plans. Perhaps he will need another one after all. Doesn’t matter. There’s a box of condoms in his bag, left somewhere in the living room. And birth control pills, but Henrik doesn’t need to know that. Every time, he’s surprised how others react when he gives them one to several packages – depending on his mood – as a farewell present. Some are even moved to tears, hug him, tell him _how sweet and considerate_ this gesture is. They talk to and about him as if he’s a Prince Charming. If only they know that it’s standard procedure, done only in self interest to avoid a surprise nine months later. Henrik’s confession, once upon a time, has left an impression on him. He felt as helpless and lost as Henrik looked, dripping wet and shivering in their dorm room in Boston.

John grabs both sides of his open shirt, tugs at them gently. He ignores the urge to grab his sketchbook, a pencil, and draw Henrik.

He ignores Henrik’s amusement, too. John will show him and wipe that smile off his face. He has the whole night to make it up to Henrik, repay him for everything he’s done to John. He’s put him through _torture._

And perhaps,  if  he allows himself to hope, this will be the first of many  more nights  to come.


End file.
